


clover

by SapphyreLily



Series: Tendrils of a Dream [2]
Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Dreamscape AU, F/F, F/M, Gen, POV Second Person, a drabble omg i wrote a drabble
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-25
Updated: 2017-10-25
Packaged: 2019-01-22 18:38:18
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 571
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12488268
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SapphyreLily/pseuds/SapphyreLily
Summary: promises come in the oddest forms - and sometimes, you don't recognise it





	clover

**Author's Note:**

  * For [bianoyami (poeticalcreation)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/poeticalcreation/gifts).



> LMAO WHAT HAVE I DONE

It’s a quiet day, a quiet night, clouds passing overhead. The sky is that shade of in-between, neither dusk nor dawn, neither day nor night. It’s peaceful.

The meadow you sit in is cold, a chilly breeze sweeps the glade. The grass is pale, winter is near, and the birds are silent overhead.

You tuck your legs under you, fingers sweeping through the grass. The blades are thin and sad, annuals dying fast. It’s too quick a reminder that the seasons are changing, the tides are changing, the birds beginning to migrate.

The creek bubbles behind you, somewhere, a soft reminder that no – the birds may migrate but you’ll not be alone. As the water still runs, so your eagle will stay, watching, waiting, keeping an eye out for you. Your protector, your friend, an extension of you.

The seasons are changing fast, and some of the trees are losing their foliage, their leaves turning dull and brittle and drifting from where they hang. You sigh, pinch a blade of grass but do not pluck, wondering, wondering.

It’s lonely.

A tiny rustle, you look up, and a grey-brown fox creeps into the meadow. It looks up, sniffs the air, dips its head low.

Above, you hear the flap of wings, the gust of wind pushing leaves from their precarious perches. You don’t need to look up to know. A trading of places, the ever-watchful eyes alternating shifts. It makes you feel warm inside, to know that there will always be someone with you. The fox or the eagle. Always one remains, if the other goes to hunt.

You extend a hand, and the fox lopes over, dropping his head in your palm. His eyes are bright though droopy, and you smile.

But his mouth is empty, without a gift, and though you expected it, your heart sinks a little.

No clovers today? You softly wonder, and his eyes close, his ears droop, he bumps your hand with his nose.

A silent apology, but an apology nonetheless, and you have to smile. You know it’s winter – or soon to be – and the clovers, the annuals that you love, they are dying, now that they’ve laid down their seed.

I’ll trade you kisses for more of them, you tease, and one eye opens, pale gold sparkling with interest. He nibbles at your palm, ears pricked, waiting, watching.

The grey-haired man raises a hand to your face, his head pillowed in your lap. Would you really?

Bring me more clovers, and we’ll talk. But you lean into his hand anyway, a smirk twitching the corner of your lips up, and his lazy smile is all the answer you need.

Clovers are weeds, he comments, and if you were more fox, you’d have bitten him.

Pretty weeds. You tap his lips, silencing him. Our pretty weed.

You feel his lips curve up, see his eyes shutter. Our weed.

The sky sparkles with miniature suns, unknown blue fading to purple. There’s a gentle peace wrapping your meadow, seeping into your bones and making you sleepy. The chilly breeze whips around you, and though your arms are cold, your heart is warm. You will be warm tonight, wrapped in fox fur, guarded by black-tipped wings, the shaded glow of the moon hanging overhead.

You drift, fading out, you think you hear a last thing–

I lied. It’s not a weed.

I’ll find you more tomorrow.

I promise.


End file.
